What Is Our Innocence, What

The Heart That Gives, Gathers.

A Man Is A Writer If All His Words Are Strung In Definite Sentence Sounds.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

Omissions Are Not Accidents.